


Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day

by anne_ammons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Much Ado About Dramione: A Shakespearean Fest, Poetry, Shakespearean Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anne_ammons/pseuds/anne_ammons
Summary: ‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind’(A Midsummer Night’s Dream – Act 1, Scene 1)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Much Ado about Dramione: A Shakespearean fest





	Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day

**Author's Note:**

> What a fun fest! I tip my hat to Art3misia for hosting. So happy for the chance to play around the sonnets. Many thanks to LKat719 for the art!

Hermione’s corner of the library was quiet. It was the way she liked it. No interruptions. No third years fooling around. Not even Madam Pince wandered back this far very often. While there was another table tucked back here, it was hardly ever in use. She could spread out her books, put her head down and focus on her school work and revisions. NEWTs were coming, after all, and she had a lot to prepare for.

Granted, it was only early October, which was why there were no other seventh or eighth years in here with her. Hermione scoffed. They could get behind if they wanted to — that was their problem, not hers. Given she had missed last year to _practical education_ , Hermione had no shortage of things she wanted to research and learn about. After all, at the end of this year, her schooling would be done. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t do a mastery or two, eventually, but that was some time away. She felt like she should use her remaining time at Hogwarts productively, regardless of how much Ron and Harry teased her about it.

Hermione wandered over to the stacks, looking for a particular reference book that had been mentioned in the footnotes of her Arithmancy text. She smiled when she spied it on the shelf. No one else in her class would even think to look for this until January at the earliest. She reached up to pull the book down, and as she did, a folded piece of parchment fluttered down to the floor beside where she was standing.

She realized it must have fallen from the book and carried both back to her desk. She wondered what it might be. A scrap of a project? Or a note someone had made about one of the sections of the book? In any event, she was glad that the person had been thoughtful enough to not write in the book, itself.

She unfolded the parchment and found not a note about the book, but a poem:

_What is your substance, whereof are you made,_

_That millions of strange shadows on you tend?_

_Since everyone hath, everyone, one shade,_

_And you, but one, can every shadow lend._

_Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit_

_Is poorly imitated after you._

_On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,_

_And you in Grecian tires are painted new._

_Speak of the spring and foison of the year:_

_The one doth shadow of your beauty show,_

_The other as your bounty doth appear,_

_And you in every blessed shape we know._

_In all external grace you have some part,_

_But you like none, none you, for constant heart._

The script was beautiful, clearly from a practiced hand. She rarely saw such penmanship among her fellow students. It was so traditional. She also appreciated the language, slightly formal as it was. It seemed familiar to her. She wondered how long the note had been here. The ink wasn’t faded, but that said very little given it had been preserved in the pages of a book.

Hermione read the words again, wondering who it might have been written by and for whom, but then she folded the note. She was eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation.She placed the parchment inside the front cover of the back of the book where its intended recipient would find it… or not. Maybe they had long ago left this place. In any event, it wasn’t hers. There wasn’t anyone who would write her something like that, she thought wistfully. Whoever had written it — whoever it belonged to, she hoped they had found each other. She turned her attention to the pages of the book, allowing herself to get lost in its words.

* * *

A week later, Hermione pulled down another book in the library. This time she was looking for information on Animagus transformations. The verse she had found before came to mind when she saw a slip of parchment tucked between the pages as she carried the book to her table.

Was it another poem? She had to admit that she was at least a little curious, as she turned to the page that the parchment was tucked into. She unfolded it, finding the same elegant script.

_That you were once unkind befriends me now,_

_And for that sorrow which I then did feel_

_Needs must I under my transgression bow,_

_Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel._

_For if you were by my unkind shaken,_

_As I by yours, you’ve passed a hell of time,_

_And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken_

_To weigh how I once suffered in your crime._

_Oh, that our night of woe might have rememb’red_

_My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,_

_And soon to you, as you to me, then tend’red_

_The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!_

_But that your trespass now becomes a fee;_

_Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me._

Hermione’s breath caught. Such sorrowful words. They spoke of remorse and an ardent need for forgiveness and acceptance. She traced her fingers over the words, imagining the writer and his or her intended. As much as the first note she found spoke of beauty and admiration, the tone of this one made clear that this was no simple love story that she had stumbled across.

She was still lost in thought when she heard footsteps. She looked up to see Harry approaching the table with a sheepish grin. As he neared, Hermione slipped the parchment under her books on the table.

“Here you are! It’s a beautiful day, Hermione. You really don’t need to be holed up in the library _all_ day, do you?”

She started to protest, but noted the pleading look on his face and paused. “Where’s Ron?”

“Off with Lavender. I think they went toHogsmeade.”

“And Ginny?”

Harry shrugged. “Couldn’t say.”

Hermione packed her school bag, slipping the note she had found in with her other things. She would put it back so it could find its intended recipient, but for some reason, she didn’t want to do it with Harry right here. He didn’t need any new hints of mystery or intrigue. He just needed to be an eighteen year old, for once.

Harry was right. They stepped outside to blue, sunny skies that kept you warm, if you stayed in the sun. It was a real treat for mid-October in Scotland. All too soon, winter would be upon them. Harry led her to a spot with a magnificent view of the Black Lake and Hermione conjured a blanket for them. When Harry laid down and closed his eyes, Hermione instinctively reached to pull a book out of her bag.

“Not now, Hermione.” Harry’s voice stopped her, and she stilled her hand. “There will be more time to read later. Let’s enjoy being outside… just for a little while.”

Hermione sighed. Harry was right. She removed her hand from her bag and looked around, marveling at the light playing on the water below her. It was good to be here without a care in the world, relatively speaking. She thought back to last October when they had been roaming in the woods, hungry and cold, searching for Horcruxes. It had been a stressful time that was, thankfully, a world away.

Coming back to Hogwarts this September had been different than the years before. There had been no easy reunions or falling back into old habits after the war had ended. Things had been too difficult, everyone’s grief too fresh. After Fred’s death, the Weasleys had headed to the Burrow, together. While Harry and Hermione knew they would have been welcomed, they also felt like it wasn’t their place. Instead, the two had headed to Grimmauld Place, to begin to put the pieces of their own lives as well as the Wizarding World back together.

It wasn’t easy, but she and Harry had helped each other through the worst of it. And when Ron showed up, it was like it had been in the Forest of Dean. They were all together again, but not quite in the same way. It turned out that while she had been helping Harry and giving testimony to the ministry for various trials, Lavender Brown had come to offer her condolences to the Weasleys and her comfort to Ron. And Ron? He had welcomed it, seemingly without a second thought.

For her part, Hermione was glad for it. While she had once thought about dating Ron, their time on the run had taught her a lot about herself and what she valued: constancy and steadfastness, among other things. As much as she cared for him, that was not Ron, although she hoped that they would remain friends.

The contrast between last year and this year was striking. This is what they had fought for — peace. Harry deserved every bit of this — a quiet afternoon resting in the grass. She looked around. The grounds were relatively quiet, with a few others strolling or lounging. Back towards the castle, one particularly boisterous group was tossing a fanged frisbee, the sound of their laughter carrying across the lawn. She turned back towards the water, wondering if she might see the Giant Squid warming itself in the shallows. Instead, her eyes caught on a solitary blond figure off in the distance, sitting on a rock at the edge of the water, a book in his hand.

Hermione knew who that particular shade of blond belonged to - Draco Malfoy, the disgraced “Prince” of Slytherin. He was quiet this year.Gone was all the braggadocio from years past. It seemed no one knew what to do with him, the youngest former Death Eater. He was alone on a rock with a book in his hand. He kept to himself, disdained by the Slytherins and the other houses alike. It was such a marked change from his past behavior. She wondered how much of how he had acted before had been him and how much of it had been an act he had been forced into to protect himself and his family. 

Much to Ron’s chagrin, both Hermione and Harry had testified for him at his trial. It hadn’t been a hard decision. Malfoy had only been a child, like them, one who had been forced to do what none of them should have been asked to do. While his venom and vitriol had started long before Voldemort’s return, he had been all bark and no bite. He hadn’t killed Dumbledore. He hadn’t identified them when they had been caught by Snatchers and brought to the Manor. Hermione had seen the fear in his eyes as she lay on the floor writhing under Bellatrix’s wand. He had been just as much of a victim of circumstance.

Every so often in the Great Hall or in one of their classes, she would look up and find him looking at her. He didn’t hold her gaze for long before he turned away, but not fast enough that she couldn’t see that his expression was sad, lonely, occasionally even haunted.

Hermione shivered, though she wasn't cold, and averted her gaze from the solitary figure, searching for the Giant Squid once more.

“See, it’s nice out here. Much better than in the library.” Harry murmured.

She chuckled. “Yes, Harry. Thank you for dragging me outside.”

She fell back on the blanket and closed her eyes, mimicking the posture of her best friend. He was right. There would be time for studying later. Sometimes, you just needed to be present in the moment.

* * *

Hermione didn’t put the note back. In fact, she forgot about it until a school owl landed at her place a few days later during morning mail call. She untied the roll of parchment and fed the owl a corner of her toast before it flew off.

“Oi ’Mione! Whatcha got there?” Ron lifted his head from his plate long enough to ask.

She shrugged her shoulders as she unrolled it, but froze when she saw the elegant script on the page. She stopped and hastily tucked it into her pocket. “Nothing. Just something I forgot.” She lied, hoping Ron would be too absorbed either in his food or Lavender to press further. She hoped no one saw the hint of a flush that she felt on her cheeks.

Harry inclined an eyebrow, less distracted by food or Lavender than Ron. He didn’t say anything, though.

“I need to get something before class. I’ll catch you there.” Hermione quickly swigged the rest of her pumpkin juice and grabbed the rest of her toast. She swung a leg over the bench, so she could escape the Great Hall. She wanted to be alone to read the note she had been sent. Her mind was racing. She was anxious to know what it said. Did it mean those earlier notes been meant for her? Who had written them? And what did that mean?

She found a quiet alcove and ducked in, dropping her bag on the window seat and digging in her robes for the note.

_Your love and pity doth th’impression fill_

_Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow,_

_For what care I who calls me well or ill,_

_So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?_

_You are my all-the-world, and must I strive_

_To know my shames and praises from your tongue;_

_None else to me, nor I to none, alive,_

_That my steeled sense o’erchanges right or wrong._

_In so profound abysm I throw all care_

_Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense_

_To critic and to flatter stopped are._

_Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:_

_You are so strongly in my purpose bred_

_That all the world besides me thinks you’re dead._

She was quite flushed as she finished reading it the second time. It was almost time for class, however, so she couldn’t ponder the words on the page any longer. Reluctantly, she rolled up the parchment and headed off to the Transfiguration classroom, slipping into her seat beside Harry just before class began.

“You okay?” He asked, assuming she was out of breath from sprinting to get there.

She merely nodded, taking out her quill and ink so she could take notes on today’s lesson. Any further thoughts on the mystery notes and their sender would have to wait.

After dinner, alone in her dormitory, Hermione dared read the note again. It had been sent to her directly, as if to remove any doubt about who the earlier notes had been for. She looked at the words on the page intently, hoping they might give up their secrets if she studied them hard enough. The words were old, but also familiar, as was the form. She pulled out the second note. The handwriting was the same.She wondered if the first note was still tucked into the Arithmancy book and decided a trip to the library was in order.

She found the book easily enough and carried it to her table, finding the note where she had left it. She gave a sigh of relief and opened it to read the words again. The words seemed so warm and intimate, as she had remembered. They spoke of beauty and admiration. She noted the reference to Helen, wondering if the writer knew of her own connection to the Greek myth. If they did, then their selection had been purposeful, as if they had chosen it to speak to her directly. Hermione had a thought, and headed to find the librarian.

Madam Pince wasn’t unhelpful, but she didn’t often go out of her way to be helpful, either. She was still mourning the loss of the sanctity of her domain and of so many books. “Any Shakespeare that the library holds can be found first by looking in the right time period and then the right genre,” she told Hermione, pointing her finger towards the stacks. Even she didn’t know what exactly the Hogwarts library still held, although Hermione thought she might have known what might have been checked out. So many books had been lost or damaged during the war. It would be quite a while before things were all sorted. At least it was something. Hermione took the lead she had been given and started her search.

Tucked away on a low shelf, she found a number of Shakespeare’s plays, although by no means all of them. She saw the Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, and Othello, among others, but others that she would have expected to see were missing. The area was near an outside wall that had been damaged during the final battle. Whether the others had been lost to the battle or were simply misplaced, she didn’t know. There were many gaps in the shelves in this area. It wasn’t a stretch to think that some of the collection had been lost. Among the things missing, that she thought might have been there, was a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was distinctive poetry written in Elizabethan English. Hermione was sure the poems were sonnets. They were each fourteen lines, with such distinctive language and meter, but whether the writer had used the Bard’s words verbatim or merely imitated them remained a question. However, that was less relevant than her shock at herself suddenly being the object of someone’s notice. She returned to her study table and sat, thinking through what she knew.

The first note had seemed to be almost a love note, which is why she initially felt she shouldn’t have read it. Rereading the words now, she saw that it was less about love and more about beauty and admiration, although the words seemed warm and intimate.

And what of that? While Hermione wasn’t someone to be swayed by unsigned declarations, it did please her to know that someone thought more of her than as the resident swot or one third of the Golden Trio. After all, while she didn’t partake of the same primping and preening as her housemates, Lavender and Parvati, she was still a young woman and she could be at least a little thrilled to have someone who seemed to admire her.

* * *

Double potions with the Slytherins was decidedly not the highlight of anyone’s week. However, with everyone working at the NEWTs level, it was far more serious than any potions class Hermione had had before. She still took issue with Professor Slughorn’s pedagogy, or lack thereof. She actually had preferred learning from Professor Snape, although she wouldn’t admit that publicly. But while Slughorn didn't do much teaching, he did give them interesting and practical things to work on. Today for example, they were beginning a lesson on antidotes, starting with the antidote for Amortentia.Harry leaned over and nudged her, “Would have been good to have known this during sixth year, yeah?”

She didn’t disagree.

The first step was to correctly brew a batch of Amortentia. It wasn’t a difficult potion, not like Polyjuice, but it required exacting measurements and precise stirring. Although Harry didn’t have the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook any longer, his potion work wasn’t bad. Hermione had been surprised that he had decided to continue in it. Ron had chosen not to. Harry had said that he wanted a chance to redeem himself, and thus far, was holding his own in the class.

As they finished brewing their base potion, Hermione watched Harry take a whiff of the rising vapors. The last time she had brewed this, she had smelled toothpaste, freshly mown grass and parchment. She didn’t think she would smell the same thing this time. In fact, she wasn’t sure what she would smell.

“Broomstick, the woods after a rain, and just a hint of jasmine.” Harry stood back, as if satisfied. Hermione gave him a look, knowing the source of the floral fragrance. Harry and Ginny weren’t together, although she knew Harry still cared for her deeply. But, she wondered if the other things that Harry smelled were his own, as if he was content with himself, after so many years of testing and turmoil. She truly hoped that was the case. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Harry.

Hermione stepped forward and fanned the vapors towards her nose. She smelled something that reminded her of the wind as it blew in the castle and something reminiscent of the library and its books, but there was something else. She took a deeper breath, smelling what she had just smelled, with a stronger sense of whatever else there was: it was spicy, like a cologne, she thought. Harry was looking at her curiously. She shrugged her shoulders and stepped back. Whatever the scent was, she couldn’t place it, although she knew why the library had featured so prominently in what she had smelled.

While Harry carefully decanted the potion into several vials, Hermione headed to the Potions cupboard to gather what they needed for the antidote. She opened the door, expecting the room to be empty, but it wasn’t. Malfoy was already inside the small closet, reaching for something on one of the higher shelves. She must have startled him when she walked in, as he let go of the bottle on the shelf, and made as if to reach for his wand.

“Oh, sorry, Malfoy.” Hermione made to reach for the falling bottle, but when Malfoy realized his mistake, his hand shot out to catch it.

Her hand clumsily hit his, as his fingers closed around the bottle faster than hers. Seekers reflexes, Hermione thought, as she pulled her hand back.

In the past, this was where Malfoy would have taken the opportunity to taunt or ridicule her on her parentage or her hair or whatever caught his fancy that day. Instead, he looked at her blankly. She took a moment to study him. His hair was longer now than it had been this summer when she had testified at the ministry. He had grown quite tall in the last fifteen months —taller than Harry, although not as tall as Ron. His build was still quite lanky, though, as if he hadn’t quite grown into his height. She remembered how haunted he had looked all of sixth year, and how worn he had looked at his trial.

While Malfoy looked healthier now, there was still an edge of fear in his eyes. She could only imagine the horrors he had seen in the last year. Her being tortured on the floor of the manor was only one night of many for him, she suspected. That, and Hogwarts wasn’t the most welcoming place for him these days. There were too many people with grudges walking around. She held her hands out in a gesture she hoped would put him at ease and stepped away from the door, so she wasn’t blocking the exit.

“Just came to get some ingredients.” She said calmly, walking towards the opposite shelf. His shoulders dropped, as if he relaxed, sensing any danger was past.

Malfoy again reached up to the shelf, pulled a bottle, and held a bottle between them. “Here, you’ll need this, Granger.” No taunt, no slur. She took it, dumbfounded. He didn’t wait for a response from her, but started to walk out the door.

“Thanks, Malfoy.”

He didn’t turn back towards her, but he stopped for a moment and nodded his head, acknowledging her words.

Well, that was weird, thought Hermione.

That evening at dinner , an owl again landed at her place and held out its leg.She hastily untied it and tried to stick the parchment in her pocket, but much to her chagrin, Ginny was faster.

“And what do we have here?” Ginny swiped the note out of her hand.

Hermione had two choices, make a fuss or pretend it wasn’t a big deal and hope it would blow over without everyone ending up in her business. She chose the latter.

“Nothing, Gin. At least I don’t think so, considering I haven’t read it yet.”

The redhead looked smug. “I seem to recall you getting an owl earlier this week, yes?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I think that tends to be what happens during mail call.” Sarcasm, yes, that was safe.

Ginny pointed around the table. “Hmm… Neville gets mail from his gran every week. Mum sends me a note regularly. Andromeda sends Harry an update on how Teddy is doing every so often. But, you know who doesn’t normally get mail, Hermione?”

Hermione could feel the blush starting to creep up her neck.

Ginny regarded her suspiciously. “Exactly.” However, she handed Hermione the parchment, with a look on her face as if to make clear that the conversation wasn’t over.

Everyone was looking at her. She tucked the parchment into her pocket, doing her best to ignore the stares of her friends.

She didn’t dare remove the parchment from her pocket later that evening in the common room. She sat at a table correcting an essay for Ron, feeling as if her pocket would burst into flame any moment. She wanted to know what it said. She chatted and pretended to read, all the while doing her best to ignore the scroll in her pocket when all she wanted to do was race upstairs and read what it said.

Eventually, she was able to make her excuses and head to her room. She dropped her bag and fished the parchment out of her pocket, drawing her bed curtains around her. Why was she so nervous about an anonymous note? She wondered, as she unrolled it, smoothing it with her hand.

_As an unperfected actor on the stage,_

_Who with his fear is put beside his part,_

_Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,_

_Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;_

_So I, for fear of trust, forget to say_

_The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,_

_And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,_

_O’ercharged with burn of mine own love’s might._

_Oh, let my books be then the eloquence_

_And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,_

_Who plead for love and look for recompense_

_More than that tongue that more hath more expressed,_

_Oh, learn to read what silent love hath writ:_

_To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit._

She read it again and then laid back and closed her eyes, thinking through the words. The writer intimated that he had feelings for her, but lacked the confidence to do more, instead preferring that the words he sent speak for him. She didn’t consider herself a sappy, romantic type. But, the words chosen were no ordinary ones. She had to admit, she was at least a little pleased by the attention. She wondered what might happen next.

Her admirer, if she could call him that, had moved from leaving notes for her in books to sending them directly to her. That was progress. How long, though, would it take before he revealed himself to her, if ever?

She was jarred out of her reverie by Ginny pulling back her curtains and flopping down on her bed. “Aha!” She grabbed the parchment that Hermione had left lying beside her.

Hermione could do nothing but groan as Ginny began to read the parchment aloud, adding a dramatic flourish to the words Hermione had been pouring over just a moment ago.

Ginny read a few lines and stopped, overcome with laughter. “Hermione, what the fuck is this?”

Hermione kept her eyes shut, as if willing Ginny to disappear.

“A poem?” She finally responded.

“I can see that.” Ginny chuckled. “And who _perchance_ wrote it?”

“Shakespeare, I think.”

“Ah, wrong question then. Who _perchance_ sent it to you?” Ginny corrected.

Hermione sighed and opened her eyes to find Ginny looking between her face and the parchment, “I don’t know.”

Ginny grinned wickedly. “You mean to tell me that it’s from a secret admirer?”

“I-I guess? Maybe?”

“Oh, poor Hermione, only you would have some poor Ravenclaw with plenty of intelligence, who is too shy to approach you himself. I wonder who it could be…” Ginny’s sentence trailed off.

Hermione saw the wheels turning in Ginny’s head and took the opportunity to take back her parchment. For a moment, Ginny looked affronted, but she didn’t protest. Instead, her face turned serious and she grasped both of Hermione’s hands in her own, as Hermione cradled the parchment.

“You deserve happiness, Hermione. We all do. If the last year taught us anything, it is that life is too short to not make room for love.”

Hermione was speechless. She had thought Ginny would tease her or scold her. Instead, it was as if she was giving Hermione her blessing.

Ginny continued, “I just hope your secret admirer bucks up some courage soon. I heard a rumor.”

Hermione wondered what Ginny was referring to. “And?”

“There’s going to be a ball!”

Hermione groaned.

“Yes, yes. We all know the swottiest of swots, Hermione Granger, wouldn’t deign to take time from her studies for such frivolities as dancing, but for the rest of us, it’ll be a good time to cut loose. And perhaps, if you have a date…” Ginny’s voice trailed off again, leaving the rest to Hermione’s imagination.

“But, I need to ask a favor, my dear.” Ginny tone was all business once again.

“Which is?”

“You need to make sure that Harry knows that it’s okay to ask me.” Ginny finished with a smile.

It was Hermione’s turn to give her friend a look of surprise.

Ginny wasn’t phased. “I’m just saying. We have to get back on track somehow. I know I’ve been a bit out of sorts, but he had better not ask anyone else.”

Hermione smiled, knowing Harry would be happy to have another chance with Ginny.

Ginny flopped back on the bed once more, “Now, whatever shall we wear?”

* * *

A few days later, as Hermione was in her room getting ready for bed, she heard a gentle tapping at the window. She hurried to open it, wondering what could be so urgent, and hoping the noise wouldn’t disturb her roommate, as Parvati was already asleep. Lavender and Ron had been in the common room when she had come back from the library, which had hastened her own turning in.

She braced herself against the cold night air and untied the parchment as the owl waited patiently before flying off. It hadn’t even waited for a treat — it did not want to be out in the cold weather, either.

Hermione got in her bed and reached for her blue flame jar so she could better see what was written on the parchment.

She noted that the script wasn’t as neat as it usually was. She wondered if it had been hastily written due to the lateness of the hour.

_Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,_

_The dear repose for limbs with travail tired,_

_But then begins a journey in my head_

_To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired._

_For then my thought, from far where I abide._

_Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,_

_And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,_

_Looking on darkness which the blind do see._

_Save that my soul’s imaginary sight_

_Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,_

_Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,_

_Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new._

_Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,_

_For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

Hermione sighed as she set her jar back on the table. The words filled both her heart and mind. She didn’t think that she could pretend that she was unaffected by these attentions any longer. How was it possible to be interested in someone when she didn’t even know who he was. His choice of words, or his use of Shakespeare’s words, rather, drew her in. He had already told her a lot, without saying anything.

She thought through the notes she had already received. The first spoke of beauty and admiration. The second, of remorse and apology for what he had done to her, although if the words were to be believed, she was not without blame. It alluded to a complicated past between them. The third was an ardent declaration of her importance in his eyes, even in the face of his own disgrace. The fourth spoke of the ardent nature of his regard, as well as his lack of confidence. And tonight’s note… Tonight’s note gripped her heart more than any before, as it spoke of how she was on his mind, in the same way that he was on hers at this moment. The only difference being that to him, she had a face and a name, and for her, she could only wonder who the sender was.

Hermione considered herself a practical girl, and not one overly prone to romanticism or flights of fancy. However, she knew this person paid more attention than most. Ron certainly would never even think about using muggle poetry at all, let alone in such a way. The poems were designed to engage her mind as well as draw at her heart. There were no idle declarations of love being thrown around, because the writer knew she wouldn’t be interested in them, at least not yet. There were no demands, as if he knew she was not one to be taken lightly. He had laid the ground work for her to consider his words and their situation.

If it had been meant to impress her, if she was honest, it did. If it had been meant to draw her in, it had. Did she have feelings for the sender? She felt it might be easy for her to do so… once she knew who it was. Somewhere in the castle, there was a boy who wanted her to know that he was thinking about her, and at the same time, she was here thinking about him. She fell asleep pondering it all, wondering if or when her admirer might decide to reveal himself.

* * *

Hermione’s steps stilled as she approached what she considered _her_ hidey-hole in the back of the library. There were books already on _her_ table.

Could this be him? Had the writer of the notes decided to reveal himself?

She stepped into the nook and saw Michael Corner hard at work. He was an eighth year like herself, a Ravenclaw, with dark hair that he wore a little long. They had served as prefects together and he had dated Ginny a while back.

“Hey Hermione,” he greeted her, looking up for a moment. “I hope you don’t mind me working back here. It looks like there’s enough room for us both.”

She smiled at him and took her seat. Michael was nice enough, but she couldn’t help feeling a little let down that all the mystery and intrigue had led to this point. She thought of each of the sonnets and tried to picture Michael making such declarations but just couldn’t do it. She sighed and pulled out her books.

Every now and then, she would look up and find Michael looking at her, but when she did, he would look back at his books. She didn’t know him to be shy, though. She decided to engage him in conversation.

“Michael, what did you think of our guest lecture in Arithmancy last week?” He looked up, apparently pleased to be in conversation with her, even if he was reluctant to lead it.

It had been a surprise to have a guest lecture from a Gringott’s curse breaker, for sure, but it was fascinating to have a chance to better understand the practical applications of one of the fields they were studying.

“It was interesting enough, although, I don’t think that curse breaking is my calling. You?”

She shook her head. “I think it’s fascinating, and you get to be in the field a lot of the time. But no, I don’t think it’s for me.”

She paused, waiting for him to say something… anything… to continue the conversation. When he didn’t, she turned her attention back to her work.

After another thirty minutes of reading, she heard him clear his throat and looked up to see him looking at her.

“Do you have plans for winter break?”

She shook her head. She expected Christmas would be a challenging one for many this year. “I expect Harry and I will lay low. You?”

She saw a flash in Michael’s eyes before he answered, “Not really.”

She was pretty sure that Michael was not the one who sent her the notes, but she had to be sure, otherwise it would drive her batty. “Say Michael, have you ever read any Shakespeare?”

He gave her a quizzical look, “You mean like Romeo and Juliet?”

“Exactly. Or As You Like It or Hamlet… ” She searched his face for any sign of recognition that he knew what she was suggesting but saw none.

“Nah. I think our library at home may have a book of his plays, but I can’t say I’ve ever picked it up. Why do you ask?”

And there it was. He definitely was not her letter writer. “No particular reason. I was just thinking of something.” She started to pack her bag. “I think I’ve done what I needed to do. Have a good night, Michael.”

He started to stand with a hopeful look on his face, “Do you want me to walk you, Hermione?”

“Thanks, Michael. I’ll be fine.” She shouldered her bag and walked away.

* * *

Exams passed and the end of the term was upon them, but Hermione was no closer to learning the identity of her admirer. She thought perhaps he would reach out to her after the exam period, and then perhaps before leaving. But, all that was left now was to close her trunk and head to Hogsmeade to board the train. She sighed. It seemed silly to want something she had never had, but there it was all the same.

She had already turned to head down the stairs when she heard a rapping at the window. She hurried back and let the owl inside. It was carrying a small box with a roll of parchment tied to it. She quickly unrolled the parchment.

_So am I as the rich whose blessed key_

_Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,_

_The which he will not every hour survey,_

_For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure._

_Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,_

_Since, seldom coming in the long year set,_

_Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,_

_Or captain jewels in the carcanet._

_So is the time that keeps you as my chest,_

_Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,_

_To make some special instant special blest_

_By new unfolding his imprisoned pride._

_Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,_

_Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope._

She couldn’t resist opening the box. It held a small jeweled pendant on a gold chain — a carcanet. She held it up. The stone was clear and brilliant. It caught the sun and cast colors around the room. It was simple and beautiful. He must have known she wouldn’t wear something flashy, and the thoughtfulness surprised her. She’d never received a gift like this from anyone other than her parents. Her eyes clouded with tears, thinking of them, and she heard Harry’s voice call up the dormitory stairs. It was time to go. She took a breath and wiped her eyes, opened her trunk and carefully placed the box and the parchment inside.

On the ride back to King’s Cross, the mood on the train was subdued. It was the first time anyone was heading home since returning to school in September, and it was the first holiday season since the end of the war. There were more people staying at Hogwarts this year than had in years past. Some didn’t have homes to go to or parents to return to. Hermione was fine with the quiet, it gave her time to think. She wondered if _he_ was staying at the castle or if he had a home to return to. She thought of the necklace in her trunk, and of his declaration — he would miss seeing her over the break. She decided that she would miss hearing from him.

* * *

Hermione had a plan. She didn’t think she would hear from him over the break, but if she did, she was ready. She had written a note to attach to whatever owl had a familiar scroll attached to it. No, she couldn’t tell it who the recipient was or where to take it, but if the owl had just come from him, she reasoned, it could take her note on the way back. It was a sound plan, she was sure of it. She fingered the pendant around her neck.

Ginny lay on Hermione’s bed cackling. “Only you, Hermione Jean Granger, would have a suitor so cerebral that he won’t even tell you who he is!”

Hermione threw one of the many crumpled balls of parchment at her friend, but Ginny swatted it away.

“Seriously, how do you ever expect to move forward if you can’t actually have a face to face conversation?”

“I know! That’s why I’m hoping to send a note back.” Hermione said wistfully.

“And why didn’t you try that before?”

“Well, at first, I didn’t know the notes were for me, and once I did… well, I certainly didn’t expect this would go on so long.”

It had taken a while to craft what she thought would be an acceptable letter for her to send. Should she respond with a sonnet? With some other poetry? What should she ask him or say? 

“I hope he’s worth it.” Ginny declared.

Hermione was growing more and more sure that he was.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Apparently, owls simply didn’t work like that. After untying the scroll that arrived late one night, she tied her note to its leg. It sat looking at her hopping on the window sill. She tried phrases like “Take this back to where you came from” and “Return home” but none of them seemed to work. Eventually, cold from the open window and anxious to read her own letter, she reluctantly untied her message from its leg. The owl flew off, but not before it hooted at her and nipped her finger, frustrated at her impertinence.

She returned to bed, casting a quick warming charm and jumping under the covers to read her note.

_Is it thy will thy image should keep open_

_My heavy eyelids to the weary night?_

_Dost thou desire my slumbers shall be broken_

_While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?_

_Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee_

_So far from home into my deeds to pry,_

_To find out shames and idle hours in me,_

_The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?_

_Oh, no; thy love, though much, is not so great._

_It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,_

_Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,_

_To play the watchman ever for thy sake._

_For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,_

_From me far off, with others all too near._

Hermione grinned. She wasn’t far from his thoughts, even though they were no longer at school. She reached for the book of sonnets laying on her bedside table. Heading to a muggle bookshop was one of the first things she had done after returning to Grimmauld Place. She had carefully tagged each one of the sonnets she had already been sent and would add this one to the list.

They were beautiful pieces of poetry, although the language was hard for many to appreciate. She paged through the book until she found the sonnet he had used for tonight, number sixty-one, and marked the page. If nothing else, she would have these, and a necklace, to remind her of the thrill of courtship.

Soon she would be returning to school, and then her focus would be on preparing for NEWTs. Soon after would come graduation and then the world outside of Hogwarts. She wasn’t sure what her suitor would do, if anything, but she hoped he would make himself known.

* * *

The school was a flutter. Ginny had been right. There was to be a ball. Thankfully, it would be early in the semester, so as not to take too much time away from revisions for her NEWTs, although some of the girls were quite put out that sufficient notice wasn’t given for their preparations. She wondered what preparations would be needed. It was to be Masquerade Ball — you needed a mask and a dress. One didn’t even need a date, although it would be nice to have one.

Harry and Ginny were going together. Ron had asked Lavender, of course. And Hermione? She wondered if she would have a date or if even the ball would pass without her getting to meet her letter writer.

She hoped that this might be the occasion that would draw him out of hiding — not that she was expecting a lot of requests from others asking to be her date. There really was only one person she wanted to go with, and she wouldn’t even know who he was if he came up and asked her in person.

She didn’t need to be worried. At dinner, a large owl landed on the table carrying a familiar scroll and a large box. Ginny clapped her hands in glee as Hermione unwrapped the scroll.

_The forward violet thus did I chide:_

_“Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,_

_If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride,_

_Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,_

_In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.”_

_The lily I condemned for thy hand,_

_And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair;_

_The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,_

_One blushing shame, another white despair,_

_A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,_

_And to his robb’ry had annexed thy breath;_

_But for his theft, in pride of all his growth_

_A vengeful canker ate him up to death._

_More flowers I noted, yet none could see_

_But sweet or color it had stolen from thee._

Ahh… the sonnet with fifteen stanzas, she noted. However, added at the bottom were two simple words,

_Will you?_

Ginny took the parchment and read it over, squealing, while Hermione opened the box to find an elaborate wreath of flowers. It contained each that had been mentioned in the sonnet, and they themselves were not without meaning: violets for modesty, lilies for humility and devotion, marjoram for happiness, and rosebuds for beauty and youth. He was making quite a declaration, she realized. He wanted everyone to know that she was not available.

Hermione knew with the school assembled in the Great Hall that he would most likely be looking for a sign from her that she accepted his proposal. She carefully pulled a lavender-colored rosebud from the wreath and put it under her nose, breathing in its delicate scent before carefully tucking it behind her ear and smiling.

Yes, she would go with him.

* * *

The following weeks passed quickly. She went dress shopping with Ginny, but found nothing that interested her, at least not that would typically be worn to a masquerade ball. She wasn’t feeling inspired, but the time for the event was quickly approaching. She should have known that he would provide her with the inspiration she needed. A large box appeared for her with a note. Always with a note, she thought with a smile.

_My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;_

_Coral is far more red than her lip’s red;_

_If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_

_If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head._

_I have seen roses damasked, red and white,_

_But no such roses see I in her cheeks;_

_And in some perfumes is there more delight_

_Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks._

_I love to hear her speak, yet well I know_

_That music hath a far more pleasing sound._

_I grant I never saw a goddess go;_

_My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground._

_And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare_

_As any she belied with false compare._

She laughed and opened the box to find her mask for the ball. Her date was clever indeed. The mask was reminiscent of a Japanese kabuki character, with a strikingly white face and red lips, complete with wiry hair that would cover her own. It wasn’t a pretty mask — but she liked it all the more because it wasn’t. There would be plenty of princesses and fairies and butterflies at the ball. She preferred to create her own narrative that didn’t hold to the conventions that much of the rest of the school held.

He seemed to be saying that it didn’t matter what she looked like, as long as she was going with him, and besides, he already knew what she looked like. Unfortunately, it gave him the opportunity to stay covered as well. She wondered if she would get to see his face before the end of the night, knowing he would be similarly hidden. In truth, it didn’t matter what he looked like or who he was at this point, he had already shown his steadfastness and attentiveness in ways that were far more meaningful to her. All he had to do was ask, and she would be his for the taking. It was a heady feeling, but also left her feeling powerless. Whether he knew it or not, this unknown suitor held the keys to her heart and she hoped that he would be careful with them.

She lifted the mask from the box and found another piece of parchment written in the same careful script.

_Meet me at 9pm by the tapestry of Gawain and the Green Knight._

It was signed simply, _Yours_.

She didn’t hear from him again until the Thursday before the ball, as an owl found its way to her window just before she headed to bed.

_Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,_

_Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,_

_Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,_

_Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;_

_And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure,_

_Wherein it finds a joy above the rest._

_But these particulars are not my measure;_

_All these I better in one general best._

_Thy love is better than high birth to me,_

_Richer than wealth, prouder than garment’s cost,_

_Of more delight that hawks or horses be;_

_And, having thee, of all men’s pride I boast;_

_Wretched in this alone: that thou mayst take_

_All this away, and me most wretched make._

He was pleased that she had agreed to go with him and hadn’t rejected him — that was clear, but it seemed he might still be nervous about her reaction to him. She wished there was something she could do to assure him of her regard, as he had done for her. She had been challenged by the one-sided nature of their conversation, given she was constrained to act until he took the step of identifying himself. Still, she had her suspicions at this point. There were few who could match her so evenly in intellect and appreciate hidden wit in the way he had shown. The sonnets were always carefully chosen. She sensed layers of meaning in them, both what was obvious, but also much that was hidden.

* * *

Saturday was a flurry of activity across the castle. Hermione was glad that she didn’t have to partake, given her own costume. Instead, she was able to help Ginny and some of the other girls in the dorm get ready.

“Hermione… you’re so lucky you don’t have to worry about any of this.” Lavender sighed as she put the finishing touches on her elaborate eyeshadow. Hermione ignored the comment, having already heard Lavender laughing with Parvati about the “wretched” mask that Hermione would be wearing — _’It’s absolutely ghastly. Why would anyone want to wear such a thing?’_

It didn’t bother her. He had bought it for her and had picked it out precisely because he knew who she was and what she liked. Having endured seven years of fairly thoughtless Christmas gifts from Ronald, Hermione knew Lavender had no leg to stand on, but she didn’t feel the need to correct her, either.

For her part, Hermione had braided her own hair and pinned her braids in the back to keep them out of the way of her mask. She wore no make up — it wouldn’t have been seen anyway. When the time came, she slipped on a dress that was much less elaborate than most of the dresses that would be worn tonight. She had chosen one that was fairly simple and would compliment, rather than clash, with her mask. It was a deep red satin wrap that sported a wide sash.At 8:45, she put on her heels and slipped out of the common room with her mask in her hand. She liked that most people in the castle would have no idea who was behind her mask. It was freeing.

She stopped for just a moment to put on her mask and headed to meet her date. _Her date_. She couldn’t believe it was finally happening. Five months of sonnets was a very long time. She thought back to the first note she had found in October, one filled with mystery, to where they were today with declarations of things she wasn’t sure she was ready to say aloud.

He was waiting, of course. She knew he would be, even though it wasn’t yet 9. He was impeccably dressed, sporting black dress robes. His mask was similar to hers, covering his full face and head. He said nothing, but gave her a stiff bow before holding out his arm to her. Hermione laced her arm through his and walked towards the Great Hall.

The ball was already in full swing when they arrived, having started an hour earlier. They were able to slip inside, relatively unnoticed, other than by those closest to them. People reacted to the masks, but quickly ignored the newcomers.

Hermione’s date didn’t let her go, let alone leave her side. He led them straight onto the dance floor and there they stayed, dancing for the better part of an hour. He was a wonderful partner, quite polished, but patient with her missteps. Eventually, the music changed, and he led her to the side of the room.

He leaned down towards her ear, “Would you walk in the gardens with me?”

She nodded yes, placing her arm in his once more.

The gardens had been warmed against the cold weather. They strolled through arm in arm, his left hand reaching over to cover her hand, his thumb rubbing against her curled hand. They walked further into the gardens, away from the noise and the light. When they reached a bench that was barely lit, he stopped and motioned for her to sit, before taking a seat, himself.

It was dark around them. She was barely able to see his mask and his dress robes blended into the night around them.

He sat quietly, as if waiting for her to ask the question he didn’t want to answer.

“Thank you for your letters. I have enjoyed getting to know you through them, although I had no way to respond.”

He chuckled. Clearly, that had been his plan all along.

She pressed on, “Won’t you tell me who you are?”

He exhaled. “If I did, you wouldn’t let me see you again.”

There it was. The truth of the matter.

“Then we’re not friends, I take it.”

“No.” There was a bitter edge to his voice.

“And perhaps we weren’t on the same side, then.”

“Sadly, no. I could say I was a product of my circumstances, but that would only be an excuse.”

She took a deep breath. He sat still, as if waiting to see if she would flee from him.

It all had needed to be said, but that wasn’t the end of the conversation. She wanted to put them back on safer ground. She wasn’t going to leave.

“But you like me.”

“Hermione…” his voice trailed off. He paused, as if steeling his resolve. “I’ve liked you for a while. I just haven’t been free to act on it… until this year.”

She lifted her mask off of her head and carefully placed it beside her. There was almost no light where they were. She moved to remove his, but his hands reached up to stop her. “It’s dark,” she promised.

“If you do this, we can’t go back.” He warned.

“And yet, we’ve come to a point where we can’t stay where we are.” She responded, gently taking his mask off and placing it next to her own.

While her eyes failed her in the dim light, her other senses took over. Her hands felt his face, traced his lips and then trailed along his jaw line. She then tangled her fingers in the soft hair on the back of his neck. She leaned in and smelled, to her surprise, the same spicy scent she had smelled when brewing the Amortentia in Potions class, so many months ago.

Hermione kissed him then, ignoring his gasp, as she did so. It was only a moment before he was kissing her back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

The kiss was nothing like she had ever experienced. These were not the sloppy, inexperienced kisses that she had had before. This kiss felt like apology and regret and the promise of much, much more, all at once.

Hermione realized it felt like coming home. She couldn’t help but moan, and he deepened the kiss. The feelings she had been experiencing were all coming to fruition all at once. She gasped.

“Draco.”

**Author's Note:**

> My sincere thanks to the Bard for lending me his words. In case you are wondering, here are the sonnets used, in order of appearance:
> 
> 53  
> 120  
> 112  
> 23  
> 27  
> 52  
> 61  
> 99  
> 130  
> 91
> 
> ...and of course the title is taken from one of the most famous, 18.


End file.
